We humans have a problem: we believe the people who say the things we like to hear. It’s easy for you to believe me when I say what you already know…
We Christians have always been good at line-drawing, and we are usually the ones who do it best. Or, if we dislike our upbringing, the ones who do it worst. The Catholics are too iconic, the Anglicans too liturgical, the black churches too emotive, the Quakers too quiet, the Methodists too formal, the Pentecostals too hyper, the Mennonites too traditional. Private worship is too individualistic, and public is too contrived or too showy. In the end, is there any good way to worship? that’s unlike what we are comfortable with?
If we dare to meet your eyes at this moment, it would help so much if we could see in them that you respect us – not because of what we’ve done or left undone, but because we are fellow humans going through the worst days of our lives. If you think we don’t care, or don’t feel, or don’t know this, you are wrong. We really, really messed up; and we do not expect to find mercy in this place.
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not have needs
He maketh me to be just fine, thank you, and I have it covered
What you said did not hurt me and what you did does not make me angry
But I have a friend you could pray for, she is really having a hard time…
Let’s say that the mister and missus are going outside to dig in the yard. Maybe she needs a new flowerbed, or maybe the septic system is acting up again. One of their two shovels is a little unwieldy; the other is the perfect size, strong and reliable, with a comfortable handle grip.
WHO GETS THE BETTER SHOVEL?
I am the light you cannot see, searching, piercing – not the mild sunlight of a summer day or the glimmer of candle and firelight, but the unescapable blaze of a streetlight on a deserted parking lot when all around is darkness.
I love you.
He was my first baby – now thirteen months old. His hair was brown, his eyes were striking, his grin was quick. I thought he was perfect.
I wrote this piece many weeks ago, about living as a foster parent and a woman. Now at last I am young enough to share it.
Folding laundry was often children’s work, and the tedious minutes we spent poring over socks appear in retrospect to have stretched out over several decades.
I found that the words distracted from the images, and the images from the words. Which post speaks louder? Does it depend on who you are?
Take a chunk of meat and cook it over open flame, drizzle it with the best of barbecue sauces until it’s sizzling and moist and just the tiniest bit burnt…